Trick Blue
by JessWaitAndSee
Summary: After the death of his father, Jack is torn to pieces. With the thought in mind that no one can ever fill in the part of his heart that his father's death took away, Jack meets the wanderer, Nami. Maybe all he needs is a little romance in his life?


I know how upsetting this is for many of my readers, but I have deleted my original "Trick Blue" story. The original is now two years old (I was in the eighth grade when I began it) and I really dislike it now, not to mention, from where I was going, I got stuck and couldn't think of what to write from that point on.

Although I'm not much older – I'm a sophomore in high school now – I'm going to give it another shot. Of course as I grow older I'll likely learn to dislike this rewrite, but I'll just have to stick to it. The course of events in the story may be completely different. They may not change at all. Who knows? We'll see how this goes, and if it doesn't work out the way I hope…well, then I owe you guys big time. Thank you to all of my readers and fans. I'm happy you all loved the original to begin with, and I'm sorry for deleting it. I hope I don't fail to please you with my second try.

Disclaimer: The Harvest Moon series does not belong to me. I do not own Natsume, Harvest Moon: A Wonderful Life (GCN), or any of its characters.

**Prologue**

It seemed to be that as each year went by, the seasons intensified. The summers grew hotter, and the winters grew colder – which was really a pain sometimes, just because the barn animals didn't adjust to the change in the weather as fast one would have hoped. But spring and autumn eventually became sights you couldn't leave this old valley without seeing for yourself. The cherry blossom flowers bloomed ever so fine in the spring. They were _everywhere_. A beautiful, elegant shade of light pink, it was hard not to feel at ease when near them.

Autumn was a wonderful sight too. Autumns long before this time, the leaves would turn various shades of really pitiful and unhealthy browns. The valley looked like it was aging, or rotting, or dying or something. But as the years passed by, shades of crimson would appear on the branches, and then eventually some burgundy and maroon. Some trees looked like they were dipped in gold. This valley sure looked pretty young and alive compared to the old days.

The valley was quite the tourist attraction. Well, sort of. The only people who ever came to see the town usually were a bunch of elders. And most of the visitors ended up settling down here, which was nice because there were so little people who actually resided.

Of course, having such a small valley with such a small population, everyone knew everyone, whether it was well or not. And having the majority of the population being elders, death was a common occurrence. Even though it happened so often, it never became something the residents got used to. It was routine, but it never became any less sad than losses before. If anything, it became more and more distressing with each death. When someone died you weren't too familiar with, the only emotion you would have felt was regret, for not getting to know that person as well as you could have.

But, when you knew the person well, at that moment you were incomplete, because in this valley, people literally became a part of one another. So when someone you were close to died, it was like someone tore out the piece of your heart that they became a part of. And that part of you is empty until someone else manages to fill in the emptiness and become a new part of you. Sound stupid?

I thought it was stupid, too, before my dad died.

My dad brought me to the valley from the city when I was a kid. My mother was hospitalized in the city we came from. She was in a coma. So, when I was twelve, Dad brought me here because this is where him and my mom got married. We wanted to surprise her for when she finally "woke up," so she could see how successful Dad was, and how much I had grown.

For a year it was all fun and games. As a child, you're oblivious to all of your surroundings and you only think about the fun and good in everything, and you can't be taken seriously. And when I turned thirteen, my dad became more serious about the farm. He told me I was going to be the owner of it when he died, and that I needed to be prepared. I was only thirteen, and well…I didn't take him as seriously as I should have. Thinking about it now, it's so strange to think about my childhood. I had not a single care for anything. I never gave a damn about my future and what I would make of it. I never thought about Dad's feelings. I never thought about my mother in a coma, and I never thought about what was happening to her. Just like every teenager, I never put any thought to things that actually mattered.

But I always knew this. Even though my Dad and I bickered almost nonstop, I never hated him. I loved him. He was the one who taught me everything I knew. He was the one who built the barn and the house, he helped plant nearly every cherry blossom tree in the tiny valley. He was the one who kept the big trick blue flowerbed alive from the day my mother and him got married to the day before he passed. (Trick blues were my mother's favorite flowers, according to him. They were autumn flowers and they only bloomed at that time of year, but somehow my dad managed to keep them alive for twenty-one years.)

His death happened out of nowhere. No one saw it coming.

He was buried near the forest river, surrounded by his favorite cherry blossom trees that turned a pretty gold color in the fall. Him and my mother used to go on dates there when they were still young. It meant a lot to him.

From that day on I understood what everyone had said about death here in this valley. When someone close to you dies, that portion of your heart that they had become a part of gets taken away. What happens when one person takes hold of your heart completely? Well, simple. You're left with nothing. Your heart is empty, from top to bottom. You feel as though that emptiness that sits there can never be filled again. And you wonder why you're still alive. Why you're still breathing, why you're still standing, and why you still feel the beat in your chest when you put your palm on it when there's nothing there.

Well, just because your heart is beating doesn't mean you're living.

It's been three years since my dad died. I'm twenty-one now. I have made a plenty good amount of friends, but no one can repair that special part of me my dad became. Not unless he's magically resurrected. No one can make me full again.

Or so I thought.


End file.
